


The Merciful

by TanninTele



Series: The Dreadfuls [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Con Artists, Crimes & Criminals, F/F, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Lesbian Characters, M/M, Murder, Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-07 23:17:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15230178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TanninTele/pseuds/TanninTele
Summary: While in preparation for a grand heist, roommates Harry, Tonks, Hermione and co. tackle Tom's birthday, raising a baby, sex tapes and - worst of all - first dates.Part Two of The Dreadfuls





	1. Chapter 1

**_The Merciful_ **

**TanninTele**

* * *

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

**I:**

**_Three Years Ago_ **

The mall, Tonks decided to herself, was the best place to wrangle fools. Black Friday shopping was coming to an end, and shoppers were scrambling to find Christmas gifts at half-price. Their coats and shopping bags were all-too easy to slip a hand into, and Tonks could easily hide in the hoards of bystanders. 

She took a break from people watching to take one last sip of her milkshake.  

"Ice cream," Tonks said seriously. "Is delicious no matter the season." 

She sat at a sticky table beside Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, dragging her finger through a pile of melted whipped cream. A struggling bug was caught in the sticky mixture, and Harry watched in disgusted fascination as Tonks crushed it under her thumb. 

He carefully removed the spoon from his mouth and patted at his lips. "You've ruined my appetite," he told her. "And this knickerbocker glory cost half my paycheck." 

"Not my fault minimum wage is a bitch," Tonks flapped a hand. "But don't worry. Dessert's on me. Or, rather," she grunted, leaning back to snatch the purse of a distracted elderly lady, swinging over the back of her chair. The poor woman was trying in vain to spoon-feed ice cream to a belligerent grandchild. She removed a handful of pound notes and let the purse swing back. "This generous woman." 

Tonks shoved the money into his hand. "Here's your money back, love." 

"Stealing from the geriatric now?" 

"Don't lecture me, you're enabling it."

Frowning deeply, Harry reluctantly pocketed the cash and tossed his garbage.

He'd recently gotten a job at  _Lockhart's Lusty Looks,_ a retail store with a shitty owner and even shittier pay. He needed all the money he could get.

Scholarships could only go so far, and as for meals and residency, Harry was lucky an older student, Hermione Granger, had needed help paying rent.

The girl was incredibly disciplined and going for her master's in journalism, although she was only a sophomore now. Harry had been in both fear and respect of her when they first met. Incredibly disciplined, she was the type to say 'let's go out for a drink,' and, indeed, get only a singledrink. She liked to surround herself with books, rather than people, and wasn't the chatty sort. Harry could sympathize. 

Out of all the interviews Harry had attended, she hadn't seemed the slightest bit bothered by Harry's sexuality. In fact, that had been her selling point; knowing that he wouldn't grope her in her sleep.

Hermione wasn't terribly impressed with Harry's acquaintance to Tonks, and respectfully rain-checked from their outing to the nearby Hogsmeade Mall. At this point, Harry almost wished he bowed out as well. 

"Oh," Tonks bounced toward a store, darkly lit and filled with band t-shirts. "Can I?" She already owned about two dozen t-shirts, and Harry yearned to take a pair of scissors to them. But, whatever kept her occupied. 

"Be my guest," Harry said in amusement. "I need some fabric for the upcoming winter showcase. It's all fur lining and dyed wool - you'd bore yourself to death. Meet back here?" 

Tonks flapped a hand in goodbye and disappeared into the shop. With her hair, painted in streaks of blue and black, and torned jeans, she fit right in. 

Harry flexed his fingers around the roll of notes in his pocket. It wouldn't hurt to splurge on a few more expensive fabrics this season. Straightening his back, Harry walked confidently into a sewing shop, avoiding the gaze of a group of Dudley-like boys eyeing him.

The boys - dressed in overlarge, sagging pants and clinking chains - had been snickering at Harry and Tonks for the past hour. Harry knew their type. Upper-class, spoiled brats attempting to connect with their inner 'bruv'. They were college drop-outs, teenage baby daddies and - Harry winced as they shouted a slur at his back - wildly homophobic.

Last Harry checked, he was still a flaming homosexual. His tight jeans and lace-lined, peach-colored shirt practically painted a target on his back. 

Grimacing, Harry unwound the winter coat from his waist and covered his shirt. It was a pity, really; it was one of his favorite shirts, bought with his first paycheck when he finally left the Dursleys. The fact he bought it with an employee's discount at  _Lockhart's Lusty Looks_ ,which mostly sold lingerie and feminine wear, probably only worsened his situation. 

Safe inside the sewing shop, Harry busied himself amongst the rolls of fabric and boxes of buttons. He trailed his fingers across a red plaid. It reminded him of fire-places and pine trees.  

"Plaid is out this season," a woman, dark-skinned and tall, told him firmly. She wasn't an employee, as she was bereft of the unfortunate beige apron, and instead was wearing a mauve pleated suit. The collar was wide and pointed, brushing against her curly dark hair. She was astonishingly beautiful, wearing little makeup except for a light bruising of purple eye-shadow.

Harry gaped at her in recognition. 

Her plush lips smirked. "Your peach blouse, meanwhile, is quite in-style. Although I can tell it's meant for someone with smaller shoulders." She flicked a sharp nail at his collarbone. 

Harry flushed, dropping the plaid instantly. "W - well, perhaps I'm bringing lumber-jack back. It's for my winter showcase." 

"Don't," the woman said flatly. "God knows why, but Prada is quite enthralled with beige this season." From her shopping bag, she removed a sketch palette decorated with pale, wintry squares of fabric. "For your showcase, try neutral colors, and - if you're confident in your needlework - show off with some embroidery."

Considering the aisles before him, Harry pointed out a dove-grey, almost blue fabric. "That'd make a lovely coat," the woman told him, nodding in approval. "Lightweight, but line it with fur, and it'll be exceptionally warm." 

"Thank you," Harry said earnestly. "Madam Zabini, I'm a big fan. I'm so sorry about your husband - " 

Serena Zabini, designer and recent widow, waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, he's just one of many. Nothing like a bit of grief to inspire art," she told him breezily. "I was supposed to meet my son for lunch, but my attention was diverted by the store owner's garish uniform." Zabini went on her toes to peer through the store window. "Ah, my son has arrived - and has flocked to his little  _friends,"_ her nose crinkled. Harry watched a dark-skinned boy dressed in ripped pants and a football jersey slap the back of a Dudley doppelgänger. 

"That's your  _son?"_ Harry gaped, before closing his mouth, realizing that may be offensive. "I mean - " 

"I know. He has inherited his late father's sense of style," the woman said grimly. "Let's just say I do not miss the man. Now, I best be off before Blaise gets into any trouble. Luckily, his friends are . . . _easily_ distracted." Fixing her bosom, Serena threw her head back. "Best of luck with your showcase,  _darling,"_ If Harry wasn't incredibly gay, her sharp grin and seductive purr would turn him.

Harry hugged the fabric to his chest and watched in awe as she clicked away. He wasn't alone. The gaze of numerous men and women followed her through the mall, including a man that nearly dropped his Blackberry. The woman winked at him.

Harry grinned gleefully to himself, and - when he was done collecting all his fabric - approached the counter. The bored-faced employee took a pair of shears to the fabric and cut him a few yards. While she was distracted, Harry tentatively snuck a hand towards a pile of glinting buttons and beads. He snagged two small, aquamarine stones and slipped them into his pocket. They'd make a gorgeous pair of cuff-links.

He winced at himself. 

 _Jesus_ , he rubbed his face, before placing the stones back on the counter. He dolled out the required cash. _Tonks was rubbing off on him._

"Thank you," he told to the cashier. 

Shopping bag in hand, Harry was incredibly amused to see the chavs entirely enthralled with Madam Zabini's breasts. Serena curled a nail under her son's chin and gave him a small peck on the cheek, before beckoning him towards a deli. 

Harry's gaze drifted to the man on his Blackberry, brow furrowed as he argued with someone vehemently. The man was reasonably handsome, older than Harry by less than a decade, with shortly trimmed hair, an aristocratic jaw and hazel eyes that seemed red in some lights, green in others, and blue when reflecting the mall fountain. His grey chesterfield coat over a thick turtleneck, his glimmering wristwatch and bulging pockets betrayed immense wealth. A vast security risk that Harry's friend noticed immediately. 

"Tonks," Harry hissed to himself. " _Don't."_

The girl had made him her target. Her hair pulled into a new beanie, making her seem meeker, less noticeable, Tonks bumped very purposefully into the man. Her hand disappeared into his pocket.

As Harry blinked, a long-fingered hand curled around her wrist and yanked Tonks away.

" - hold on a moment, Crabbe," the man said absently into his cell-phone.

Wide-eyed, Tonks tried to pull away, in effect dropping his nice leather wallet. A number of coins clinked onto the linoleum.

"I've got a little pick-pocket to deal with." He snapped the phone shut. 

Fear flashed across Tonks' face. Harry rushed forward, hugging his bag to his chest. "Let go of her," he demanded, voice echoing. 

A furrow formed between the man's brows. He tightened his grip. "This girl - " 

\- took matter into her own hands. Thinking fast, Tonks screamed. _"Pedophile!"_

The man dropped her like he'd been burnt, and the gaze of nearly everyone darted over to them. Tonks was really putting on a show, fake tears glistening in her eyes, as she prepared for another shout. "Creep! Pervert!" 

 _"Oh my god,"_ Harry snatched her by the sleeve. "Tonks, come on - I'm sorry about her, she's clearly mentally unstable, but you shouldn't have grabbed her like that  - " 

"Is there a problem here, sir?" A mall cop, dressed to the nines in a blue uniform, approached them with a scowl. His mustache was enormous, and Harry would've been distracted by it, if his best friend wasn't currently jabbing a trembling finger at the other man. 

"He - he - he tried to  _touch_ me," she forced out. "He grabbed my arm, and - " 

"That is  _not_ what happened," the man tried to contest. "Not precisely."

Arching a bushy brow, the cop nudged his shoe at the fallen wallet. "Well, then what _did_ happen here, hm?" 

"He tried to  _pay_ me for sex," Tonks spat. 

Everyone blanched. "The _nerve_ \- " the man whispered. 

Harry, exasperated, pulled on Tonks' hand. "Stand down, Dora, let's just  _go."_

She brushed him off, building up steam .  "And when I screamed, he dropped his money. I will not be  _bought!"_

"Don't fret, lass, I'll take care of this," the cop laid a hand on his club, and attempted to tower threatening over the other man. This was rather ineffectual as he was shorter than even Harry. 

"No, no," the man raised his hands. "No need for violence. I'm sorry for scaring you," he soothed, bending down to collect his wallet.  He slipped the coins inside, fingers deft. Harry saw the glint of a gun at his belt and took a large step back. 

"I was on the phone with a friend discussing - ah, _hiring_ an exotic dancer for his bachelor's party," he explained to the cop. With the perfect amount of embarrassment and candor in his tone, the lies slipped from his tongue with barely a hesitation. "This young lady bumped into me, and she must have misheard . . . It was all a big misunderstanding, you understand." 

"Ah," the cop narrowed his eyes, "Is this true, lass?" 

Tonks sniffled, her eyes flicking down to the man's gun. She seemed a bit pale. "I might have overreacted," she stated, resiliant. "But . . . I demand retribution for the emotional trauma I've been dealt." 

_What ever happened to 'I will not be bought'?_

Harry covered his mouth with a hand, fighting a hysterical laugh. She was _insane,_ and playing these two like a damn fiddle. 

The man breathed through his nose as if repressing a swear. "Well," his eyes flickered to Harry and the expectant mall cop. "I'd be delighted to treat you and your friend to a meal in . . .   _apology_ for this _misunderstanding_ ," he bit out, and checked his watch. "I have a reservation for lunch at  _Pomona's Sprouts_ in a half hour, if you'd like to join."

Tonks nodded approvingly. "We're hungry, aren't we, Harry?" 

Harry swallowed tightly under the man's dark gaze. "I actually just ate," he murmured, before raising his voice. "But it'd only be polite to accept. Considering the circumstances." 

The cop nodded, satisfied, and the man smiled tightly.

" _Excellent,"_ he purred, and unwarranted, a shiver went down Harry's spine.

* * *

_**Present Day** _

_Pomona's Sprout_ was mildly expensive but had a large, vegan-friendly menu. Hermione, grateful for this fact, ordered a lettuce wrap while Ron tried the chickpea soup. As she delicately took a bite of the wrap, Ron watched in amazement. The word 'rabbit food' was on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back, taking a swallow of his soup. It was as terrible as he expected. Ron grimaced. 

The meal was awkward, quiet, as Ron frantically thought of conversation starters. "So, uh, the movie - " he began, just as Hermione spoke. 

"How is your - " 

Ron cut off with a soft laugh, and Hermione flushed. "The movie," she latched on eagerly. "Was brilliant, if I do say so myself. You know, I took a course on videography, and - " 

Ron fought to pay attention, nodding along to her excited chatter. The documentary they'd seen in the mall theater was on the migration of winter birds; Ron had damn near fallen asleep during it, while Hermione seemed deeply involved. He'd kept himself awake by watching her reactions. An hour and a half in the dark allowed Ron to memorize her silhouette. A very pretty silhouette, mind, but her front teeth were _huge_ and her hair blocked the view of those seated behind them. Ron's gaze drifted down to her overbite, between which a chunk of lettuce was stuck. He gestured upwards, interrupting her.

"You've - er, sorry, but you've got a spot of lettuce, just there," he told her. 

Hermione's cheeks darkened and she lifted a hand to hide her face. "Don't cover up," Ron said quickly "It's fine. Have I told you that you look pretty today?" 

Hermione glanced down at herself self-consciously, brown eyes drooped. She wore a simple grey dress and black flats, resembling something you'd wear to church. Hermione tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. "Thank you," she said softly. "You - you look better." 

"Better? Compared to what?" Ron asked in faint amusement.

She shrugged lightly. "You wore sweatpants and a stained shirt when you asked me out,. At least you clean up nice," Hermione picked up her lettuce wrap again. "You know, I'm really grateful that you took me out for vegetarian food. Not everyone is willing to make such a sacrifice," she said wryly. Hermione gestured to his soup, mostly untouched. "Sorry about that," 

Ron gave a short laugh. "Don't be. It's nice to try new things, even if it tastes like vomit. At my frat, all we eat is  vension and junk food. I appreciate sharing a meal where Cormac isn't shouting at me from across the table to 'pass the grits!'," he whisper-shouted. 

Hermione laughed. 

"I'm really glad Harry introduced us," Ron beamed at her. "He lent me my outfit, too. It's a bit small." 

"I can tell," Hermione's gaze lingered on Ron's biceps. He wore a tight, dark blue dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal freckled arms dusted with almost invisible hairs. "What color did he call your shirt?" 

"' _Cobalt blue_ '," Ron quoted. " _'With a mandarin collar.'_ He's a riot." 

Hermione smiled fondly. "You should meet my other roommate. Nymphadora Tonks?" 

"The - ah - pink haired girl?" he queried. "We've met in passing. She spends a lot of time with my brothers." He played with his soup, and spoke absently. "I wonder if they're banging." 

The girl blanched at his comment, a pang of hurt slicing through her chest. Ron seemed to realize his crassness, and hurried to apologize. "Er - I mean, she's always over at Gryffindor House, holed up in their bedroom. It's just suspicious, as all. I'm sorry. You didn't know?" 

"I - " she stammered, grateful for the sudden beeping of her phone.

Hermione scrambled for it, flicking open her purse and hiding her stinging eyes.  _It's perfectly alright for her to date,_ Hermione told herself vehemently.  _You're on a first date now, for god's sake._ Clearing her throat, she opened a text from Harry. It was succinct and brief, betraying Harry's panic. 

_Emergency at Tom's._

"I have to leave," Hermione blurted. She took a few quick bites of her food, before wiping her face.  "There's an emergency - I'm sorry to cut this short," she said apologetically, pushing away from the table. 

"Oh," Ron said in surprise. He waved for the check. "Do you need any help? A ride?" 

Hermione thought of Tom's  _'ultra, top-secret, off the grid headquarters',_ as Harry once described it. She doubted Tom would be very happy to see this particular Weasley dropping her off at the front doors. "I can take a taxi." 

Tossing money onto the table, Ron hurried after her. "No one's hurt, right?" 

"What?" Hermione was rapidly texting Harry, struggling to pull on her coat. Ron grabbed it and helped her with the sleeves. "No, no. It's just a work thing," she assured. "But they need me immediately." 

"At the library?" his brow furrowed.

Hermione closed her eyes. She kept walking at a quick pace. Her date was alarmingly perceptive - which, she supposed, wasn't so odd considering he was studying criminology. Ron dogged after her, right at her heels, as they left through the mall's sliding doors. As Hermione beckoned for a cab, Ron shifted back and forth on his feet, debating whether or not to kiss her goodbye. 

"You aren't - you're not just trying to get out of a bad date, are you?" He asked, hazel eyes lowered. "Once, Cormac had me call him, pretending there was an 'emergency', when he wanted to ditch his blind date. He thought she was 'too gothic', but when I picked him up she just seemed sad - " he blathered. 

Hermione stopped him with a gentle kiss on the cheek. "You did great," she said encouragingly. "More than great. I just really have to go. I'll - I'll call you." 

Ron struggled to grab his phone. "We haven't exchanged numbers - " 

The taxi pulled up behind Hermione and she reached back to open the door. " _Later_ , Ron. You know where I work!" she slid in, and waved at him. "Thank you for the movie, and the food!" 

Not the _worst_ first date he's had. 

Ron raised a meek hand as the cab screeched away. He let it drop and looked down at the cobalt shirt, seeing a faint stain of chickpea soup on the lapel. Harry would need it dry cleaned before Ron returned it. 

 _That went well,_ he sighed.  _I think._

* * *

 ** _To be continued . . ._**  


	2. Chapter 2

**_The Merciful_ **

**TanninTele**

* * *

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

**II:**

_The Hog's Head,_ a bar posing as the Death Eater's front, had a seedy entrance but a vast storage cellar underneath where Tom and his Death Eaters plotted their 'nefarious schemes', as Harry once described it. A good number of their deals went down under the barman, Aberforth's, protective watch.

It was _supposed_ to be a neutral ground, but the moment trouble arose, Tom's men would swarm the joint. A bullet hole could be seen in the  _Odgen's Old Firewhiskey_ mirror beside Aberforth's counter. The broken glass and cracked fracture told an untold story; when it had appeared one day without explanation, the bar patrons had suspected a haunting and urged the amused Aberforth to hire an exorcism.

The truth was that a sniper had once tracked Tom down as he exited  _The Hog's Head_  and attempted to execute him. George Weasley had, luckily, been in the way, jabbering on about a prank involving electrical wires and door knobs  _à la '_ Home Alone'.

From that day on, Tom and his more recognizable Death Eaters used the complicated back entrance; a passage dug through the wall behind a portrait of a girl they called simply 'Sister A'.

The passage lead to the torched-out bottom of an empty dumpster. No more than one person could exit it at a time, but Sister A had protected the Death Eaters more than once when a hasty getaway was required.

Hermione, thankfully, was allowed to use  _The_ _Hog's Head_ entrance.

Soft murmurs erupted as she entered. Lifting the collar of her jacket to hide her face from the leering patrons, she sat tentatively at the bar. The heat was blasting and the tavern smelt of whiskey and sweat. The stool creaked perilously under her as Hermione waved down the barman. Aberforth, with his wizened features and suspicious stare, asked for her order.

He was cleaning a dirty cup with an already stained rag, essentially just smearing around the dirt. Hermione wrinkled her nose. That, certainly, was a health code violation, but she wasn't here to drink.

"Just, um, some tap, please." She slid forward a fake golden coin, engraved with a serpentine animal. Heat cascaded over her back, and she felt the distinct sensation of being watched. Glancing around surreptitiously, she shook it off. 

Aberforth inspected the coin keenly, turning it around in his hand, before nodding shortly and passing it back.

"The bathroom?" She asked, voice strangled.

With a jerk of his bearded chin, he directed her towards a hallway. Hermione jumped from the stool so fast she nearly tripped, and a man wolf-whistled at her. Hermione flushed brightly and disappeared behind a corner.

She was lucky no one approached her to buy her a drink. Tonks' first day, the girl was ambushed at the door and propositioned three times - twice by the same lesbian hag.

Clucking her tongue, Hermione made a left instead of a right at the hall. She descended a set of creaky stairs into a wine cellar, the walls lined with barrels and kegs. Empty bottles were set onto a table beside a tube and a funnel. The barman, she'd learned, labeled and resold watered down vodka in recycled bottles to drunkards for the same price.

Well, it was more water than liquor. "They're drunk," Tom once told her. "They can't tell the difference." 

In exchange for residency, Tom kept quiet about Aberforth's crimes and Abe turned a blind eye to the numerous shady patrons leaving for the bathroom and never returning.

A large metal door was nestled between the racks of wine. It was soundproof, Hermione suspected, as all was silent except for the creaking of floorboards above head. Unsure of herself, Hermione rapped thrice on the door, the rhythm for _'Sly-ther-in'_ \- the Death Eater's alleged founder, although they went by another name back then.

There was a long pause before someone got off their arse to open the door.

"Hermione," Tonks' bright face met her. Unwittingly, Hermione smiled back. "How was your  _date_?" Tonks asked her teasingly, grabbing Hermione by the elbow.

"Oh," she said, throat tight. She forced a breezy tone. "It was fine, we saw a movie - "

"Good, fantastic!" Tonks rushed her into the room. "I'm happy for you. Now, we've got a bit of a crisis."

Hermione blinked at the sight of twins and a few other Death Eaters sitting around a computer screen, watching a televised arrest. A veritable snake pit of cords and cables were tangled together, leading to the command center. The computers were running numerous programs; tracking operations, recording select conversations and monitoring the going-ons of  _The Hog's Head._

Harry, wearing black pants and a baggy sweater - not his own, Hermione noted - was leaning against a wall, watching Tom stalk through the room.

"Oh, great, you're here," Harry noticed Hermione, and nodded at the computer screen. "Look at this mess."

Hermione leaned forward to watch a stout, spiky-haired man screaming and shouting as he was forcibly removed from a chapel surrounded by gravestones. In the corner of the screen, a sobbing family in black watched as he broke free from the police to snarl at them. Hermione tipped her head curiously. "Who is this?"

"Peter Pettigrew," Tom spat, shoes clicking against the the musty concrete floor. "A spineless, lowlife  _coward."_

"The British archaeology guild certainly didn't think so when they awarded him that Order of Merlin, first class," Harry said wryly.

"He would've been  _perfect,"_ Tom bemoaned, slumping into an empty chair. "Just the right amount of reclusive and susceptible - "

"To be manipulated in giving up his invite," Tonks finished in a near perfect impression of the older man's drawl. "We've heard it already, stop your whining."

Hermione flinched, expecting Tonks to be reprimanded, but Tom remained quiet as Harry soothed a hand over his hair.

Finally, as they watched the computer, Peter Pettigrew was shoved into the back of a police vehicle. "He tried to rob the grave of Princess Helena last night," Tonks told Hermione quietly. "They say he's ill, poisoned by some mold spores from all that time holed up with antiques - "

"But who  _is_ he?" Hermione asked.

"He was this famous young archaeologist; like a little rat, sneaking into vaults and digging up their secrets. He supposedly found an ancient golden sculpture of the Holy Grail," Harry told her,  _sotto voce._ "Hence the Order of Merlin, First Class. Pettigrew hasn't found anything exciting since the Grail, but he - and one guest - were invited to the  _Magic Is Might_ exhibit due to his award. Now with his arrest," he gestured at the screen.

"The invites will be rescinded. Thus Tom's hissy fit."

Said man bared his teeth at Harry, who returned a soothing hand to his hair.

"So what now?" Hermione asked, frowning. "What do you need me for?"

"What I  _need,"_ Tom stressed, leaning forward to exit the video. "Is access to the invitee list, which I currently have George and Tonks on now. You'll be attending the exhibit as a _guest_ of one of those invited. The question is. . . _who?_ _"_

Tonks perked up. "Right!" she spun around to sit beside George. "The list isn't public, but from what we've gathered on social media, a large portion of their invitee list is made up of the exhibit's more  _generous_ benefactors. The rest, like Pettigrew, are famous archaeologists and researchers. But they're simply too volatile. We'll have to go the other route." 

Tom nodded, agreeing.

"There's a page on their website giving thanks to their contributors," George butted in, scrolling down on a separate computer. 

Hermione read it aloud. 

_"Many thanks to: Amos and Reba Diggory, Samuel Fawcett, Isobel MacDougal, Stanislav Poliakoff, Marco and Serena Zabini - "_

Harry jerked forward. "Zabini," he echoed, glancing at Hermione. "That's the woman - "

"The woman courting Narcissa Black, exactly," she said.

Fred clicked her name. "It says . . . that Marco was a prolific donor before he passed away, and in his memory, Serena has donated thousands to the archaeological guild on the anniversary of his death each year."

"Marco was her first husband, I believe. The father of her son," Harry said. "Perhaps she's nostalgic. Do you think she'll have been invited?"

"The Black Widow is practically a historical figure herself," Tom mused, rocking forward and back in his desk chair. "Of course she'll be invited. What's important, however, is who she's invited as her  _guest."_

Hermione sent a blithe smirk at Harry. "Oh, we know the answer to that, don't we, Harry?"

Tonks sighed. "I thought - rather  _hoped_ youwere _done_ with the Malfoys."

Harry ran a hand through his hair, tugging at his bangs. "Me too, Dora. Me too."

* * *

**_Malfoy Flat, London_ **

Gritting his teeth, Draco scrubbed at the large pile of dishes filling the sink. His sleeves were soaked in water and suds were bubbling over the rim. He clearly had not a clue what he was doing, but it was better to do the dishes than deal with Astoria and her obnoxious sister.

"There ought to be staff for this," Daphne told Astoria, watching as Draco ran the sponge over a particularly stubborn spot. She raised her voice. "Or did you knock _them_ up too, Draco? Maternity leave is a blessing, I've been told." 

Closing his eyes, Draco seethed. Daphne and her beloved girlfriend, Pansy, were visiting from their stay in Havana. They returned goregously tanned, half-way fluent in Spanish, and with a healthy amount of distaste for the boy that 'defiled' Daphne's little sister. Daphne wasn't truly that upset with him; she just liked to rile the boy up, and Pansy was there with popcorn to watch.

"How long are you staying, again, girls?" he asked, forcing pleasantry. He wiped his hands on a towel and turned towards the couch.

"Until the baby is born, of course," Pansy patted Astoria's stomach, only for her hand to be batted away. Astoria didn't like to be  _touched._ Pansy continued without pause. "And then we're stealing your girl away for an extended vacation. God knows she'll deserve the rest after labor. I hear it's  _arduous,_ but I wouldn't know," Pansy said delightfully. "One of the perks of being in a loving, lesbian relationship; no expectations for procreation, isn't that right, Daphne, dear?"

Daphne rolled her eyes. The older Greengrass sister resembled her sister almost down to the freckles on her nose; but where Astoria dressed up for the occasion in a flowing pastel dress, pearl jewelry, and her make-up heavily caked, Daphne was proud of her freckles and rosy cheeks. She was stuck in the nineties, dressed in faded jeans, a striped turtleneck and her chin-length hair left in it's natural curls. The Greengrass sisters were infamous child actresses, starring in a sitcom about - Draco suspected - raising hellish children.

"How far along are you, Tori?" Daphne leaned in close to her sister. "You're looking bigger than I expected."

"Six months, now," Astoria's pale pink lips twisted in an entirely unattractive grimace. "And that's the maternity clothes, making me look huge. They're just so  _baggy._ Unflattering." 

Daphne frowned, pinching the fabric. "Where'd you get them?"

"Oh,  _Narcissa_ gave them to me," Astoria sent a heated glare at Draco's tense back. She lowered her voice. "That woman hates me."

Pansy gasped, loving a good gossip. "Did she say something to you?"

"No," Astoria huffed. "Not directly. It's all very underhanded. It's in the way she  _looks_ at me - like I'm dung under her nose. I wonder if she always looks like that? Perpetually pompous?" she did a rather accurate impression of the elder woman, much to Pansy and Daphne's giggles.

With a splash, Draco tossed down his sponge.  _"Do not_ talk about my mother that way!"

"Why not?" Astoria shot back. She crossed her arms. "It's true, isn't it? She doesn't like me."

 _"No_ one likes you, when you're like this," the boy grumbled. 

Daphne and Pansy caught each other's eyes, each gleaming with varying degrees of amusement and irritation. "Well," Pansy said delicately. "Thank you for our meal, that was delicious."

"It was just take-out," Astoria dismissed, reaching in vain for the telly remote, sitting on the other chair. When no one moved to help her, she gave up. "What sort of foods did you eat in Cuba?"

"Authentic, of course. The culture and people were extraordinary. I have notebooks full of writing, it really was a great experience."

Pansy was a screenwriter, known for one or two independent films, and was the younger of the couple. Her cocoa skin made her short, inky hair seem even darker, highlighted by red lips and a nose ring. She was in some traditionally Cuban dress, but the hem of it barely brushed her thighs.

"We're thinking of living there, aren't we, darling?" As she reached over to brush a kiss to Daphne's cheek, her skirt rode up and Draco couldn't  _help_ his eyes wandering. He turned his head over his shoulder and ran his tongue across his teeth.

Astoria noticed immediately and her cheeks flushed red. "Draco! Show some decency, she's  _taken,"_ she screeched, tossing a throw pillow at his back. "Much like  _you_ were when we met."

"I thought we agreed not to mention that?" 

"I'm allowed to still hold a grudge, aren't I?" 

"Are  _you_   _two_  even together?" Daphne stared between them in amazement. "You're fighting like cats and dogs."

Draco sent her a heated look.

"I'm just asking for a friend," she defended herself. 

"No, dear, just look at them," Pansy said, playing along. "They  _despise_ each other."

Neither Draco nor Tori protested that statement. Astoria, still irritated, arched a perfectly sculpted brow, while Draco just huffed and returned to the dishes.

"I'm serious," Daphne said enthusiastically to Astoria. "Blaise Zabini - that boy you shacked up with at my beach-house party this summer - was wondering if you were single."

The other girl blushed, pleased. "Was he really?"

"Yes. Come to think of it, my beach party _was_ about six months ago . . . " Daphne trailed off, brows furrowing.

Astoria spoke quickly, interrupting. "Blaise was a lovely boy, I do hope - "

"Don't kid yourself," Draco snarled from the sink. The suds on his face rather negated the impressive baritone. "Why would anyone want to be with you like  _this_?"

 _"Pregnancy,"_ Astoria hissed, shifting from coy and cute to a vicious beast in seconds. Her voice trembled faintly. "Is quite  _attractive_ to some, thanks." 

"Not to me,  _thanks,"_ he mocked. 

Pansy reared her head back, looking between the two. "Honestly? This entire time you've lived together, you haven't - you know?" she made a vague gesture with her hands. "I’m gay, I don’t know the mechanics. But don’t you two share a bed?”

"I make him sleep on the couch," Astoria said smugly.

" _This_ couch?" Daphne asked, nose wrinkling. "Is it  _clean?"_

Draco made an insulted noise. "I'm not some sort of gutter rat, you know."

"Just a regular old rat," Astoria mumbled, wrapping her arms protectively about her stomach. "Did you know he had a  _boyfriend_  when he did this?" she flapped a hand at her stomach. "Poor lad didn't know he was dating a filthy, ferrety rat. If only _I_ knew what I was getting into."

"You seemed to like me well enough back then," Draco said, hurt.

"Obviously," she snapped at him. "Pregnancy brain has helped clear up a few things."

"This is brilliant," Pansy whispered to Daphne, a gleeful sparkle to her eyes. "I could fill a whole movie with their pithy banter. "

"My  _life_ is not a fucking rom-com, Pansy!" Draco shouted at her.

Shoving away from the kitchen, he stalked past them and yanked his coat off the hanger. The rack fell with a metallic clang, and Draco kicked it away. He left the apartment with a  _slam._

Pansy turned slowly to arch a brow at Astoria. The girl sighed, the fight leaving her. She slumped into the coach, features drawn. "He's a drama queen."

"Hm, then you two really  _do_ belong together, don't you?" Daphne inserted teasingly, trying to defuse the situation. "When's he going to pop the question?" She meant it in jest, doubting that the little boy had ever made a responsible decision in his life, but was surprised at Astoria's hardened expression. "Oh, dear. He already has? I hope you didn't accept."

"Of course not. I'm not planning on keeping  _this_  baby, why would I want to raise  _two_?" 

"Excellent point, sister dear. That explains his surliness, then." 

"Ever since I rejected his proposal, he's been incorrigible," she confided. "He calls his parents twice a day to complain. No wonder Narcissa doesn't like me, all she hears is 'Astoria did this', 'Astoria bitched about that'. God; if he wasn't such a pretty face, I'd wonder why I put up with him." She shifted uncomfortably in the couch cushions.

"That's why," Pansy pointed out her stomach unhelpfully.

"Yeah," Astoria sighed, staring up at the ceiling. "Right." The loft was uncomfortably quiet for a moment, before Astoria spoke again, wistful. "Tell me more about Cuba, please _."_

* * *

As expected, Draco did, indeed, call his mother to whine.

" - it's just . . . with all of them there, it's worse, because I'm dealing with  _three_ women who hate me. I always admired Astoria, she's quite resilient and beautiful, and when we were on set, there was always an undertone of  _more - "_

"I know, darling," Narcissa sighed, lifting a hand to inspect her nails. The beds were rounded and the the blood red polish smooth, not a scratch on them. "You had a  _crush_ , and you placed her on a pedestal," her tone had a hint of condescension. The was sitting in the solarium, a beam of wintry light cascading over her. Her blonde hair practically glowed. 

"Not a crush, exactly, mum," Draco grumbled. "I'm not twelve. But now we've _both_ been knocked down to the bottom of the heap, with the rest of the _commonwealth_ ," Draco spat it like it was a curse. "And we're  _stuck_  together. Did you know she's considering getting rid of the baby? Not abortion, no, it's too late for that, but  _adoption._ What if it ends up with some - some pathetic couple in the Americas of all places? It's still my baby, don't I get a say in where it ends up?" he sounded almost mournful, as though already grieving the loss of his child.

Narcissa shifted the phone to her other ear. The silken sleeve of her robe slipped down to reveal a pale, elegant shoulder, the wrinkles in her skin barely perceptible. "Do you even  _want_ the baby, dear?"

"Of course not. No. Babies cause stress, and stress causes wrinkles," he dismissed the thought. "It's just the  _principle_ of it."

"It's her body, Draco," Narcissa reminded him gently. "And if you try to raise a fuss about it, well, god knows she could easily contest your parental rights if you're unwilling - and unfit - to raise a child. Lawsuits and court trials are such a  _messy_ business, dear," she trailed off. "Speaking of - "

Draco interrupted, with a low growl. "Goddamnit, I need to go. I stepped out for a bit to catch my breath, but there's a commotion going on in the next street, I can hardly hear you. I love you, give my best to father - "

"You'll probably see him sooner than I," Narcissa said idly, rubbing the bare, pale skin around her left ring finger. "We've divorced. Have a good evening, dear."

She hung up, smirking at Draco's alarmed  _"What?!"_

"I'm terribly sorry about that," Narcissa said to her guests, leaning forward to top off Harry and Nymphadora's cup of tea. "My son tends to  _rant_ when he's irked; takes after his father in that manner," she sat back, peering at her pink-haired niece and the ex-lover of her dear son. She much preferred the humbled, soft-spoken Harry over Draco's current paramour.

"Now," Narcissa smiled pleasantly. She cradled her own cup, blowing at the steam. "Where were we?"

* * *

**_To be continued . . ._ **


	3. Chapter 3

  ** _The Merciful_**

**TanninTele**

* * *

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

_Chapter Warning: Murder, Graphic Violence, mention of cancer, STDs, and lots and lots of tea._

* * *

  **III:**

_"Now," Narcissa smiled pleasantly. "Where were we?"_

Harry cleared his throat, tongue burning from the hot tea. "You were telling us about your divorce. It went well, I assume?" 

"As well as I expected," she sighed, the sound weary. "With that French family, the DeLacours hounding him for money, Lucius hardly has enough to continue dragging this through court. But it's ugly, ugly business. He's been sending me gifts and cards, begging and pleading for me to return. With the DeLacours and Draco, I suspect our marriage was the only thing in his life he could rely on. To maintain his reputation, at least." She took a tentative sip of her tea, and coughed, lifting a napkin to her lips. 

"My, that is hot, isn't it? Living on my own has been a trial. I'm used to hoards of servants and butlers catering to my every need - " Tonks sent Harry an exasperated look. "But the independence _is_ thrilling. Even when it comes to making my own cup of tea whenever I damn well please, and not just at the 'allotted elevenses'. Lucius kept very strict schedules, you see."  

Harry looked around Grimmauld Place, the old Black family home. "It's a beautiful home," he complimented. The town home was rather dismal, with little natural light and dark furnishings, but Narcissa brightened it up with candles, fur rugs, flowery centerpieces and a beautiful ivory piano that sat unused in the corner. It was modern, and more importantly,  _livable,_ as Grimmauld Place had been left uninhabited since Narcissa was a child. 

"Thank you," Narcissa nodded, pleased. "It was a mess when I first moved in. But Serena has been helping me," her high cheekbones flushed. "The only good thing to come out of Lucius and my marriage was our yearly 'honeymoons' to Italy. A romantic getaway, he told everyone, but really just an opportunity for him to gamble with the mafia, and for me to see Italian runway shows," she said wistfully. Harry leaned forward, interested. "They were always so lovely. Colorful,  _avant garde._ I met Serena there, at her showcase, and, well - love is love, I suppose. I know she's got a dark past, but who doesn't?" 

"Does she visit London often, then?" Harry asked, remembering a meeting with a dark-skinned temptress with a hatred for beige. 

"Yes, her son boards here. She's rented an apartment in London, and it's not far from Grimmauld," Narcissa smiled genuinely. She looked young, and in love. It was ridiculously sweet. "I hope she decides to stay. But the moment she and I go public with our relationship, Lucius will throw a _fit._  I won't even mention the _Daily Prophet_ and their obsession with Serena's ex-husbands," she rolled her eyes skyward. 

Tonks, who had been rather bored until now, sat up. Her tea was saturated with sugar cubes, and she'd been attempting to balance a spoon on her nose until Harry slapped her arm. "Er, yes," she cleared her throat. "S - suppose you and Madam Zabini were invited to a grand opening of an artifact exhibit. Would that be considered 'public'?"  

Narcissa's brows furrowed. "Yes, it would," she said uncertainly. "And I'm not a fan of antiques anyhow. Goodness knows how many 18th century baubles and dusty knickknacks I had to clear out of here for the house to even be _considered_ sanitary," she sniffed. "The children's dolls in the upstairs nursery are most certainly haunted," Narcissa leaned toward Harry, whispering. "I'm considering giving them as an 'heirloom' to Astoria when she has the baby." 

The green-eyed boy bit back a laugh. "Oh, don't. Her poor child doesn't deserve to be traumatized." 

Narcissa leaned back, a tender look on her face. "No, I suppose not. It's a boy, did you know? After Draco, I never thought I'd have another child," her expression twisted. "It's a 'tradition' in the Malfoy family to have one, and only one, son. The truth is, it's - "

"Low sperm count," Harry nodded, laughing aloud this time. "Draco told me." 

"Feel free to tell us any more of Draco's deficiencies," Tonks offered. "Really, we'd love to hear 'em." 

The Black matriarch shook her head, amused. "You're not here to verbally bash my ex-husband and son. You came to me for a reason, and I suppose it has something to do with this artifact exposition?" 

"Yes, actually," Tonks sat straighter. "The _Magic is Might_ exhibition. Serena Zabini will be doubtlessly invited, and she has the opportunity to invite you as her 'plus one'. However, we _need_ that invite."

Narcissa' expression chilled, gaze focused entirely on her niece. "I see." She changed the subject. "Straight to business, you are, just like your mother."

"My mother's dead," Tonks said flatly. "Cancer. I really don't want to talk about her." 

Blue eyes softened. Narcissa leaned forward to lay a hand on Tonks' knee. To Harry's amazement, Tonks didn't immediately pull away. "Your mother loved you very much, Nymphadora," Narcissa told her quietly. "When Andy and I finally began to talk again after her _elopement_ to that . . . _person_ \- "

"It wasn't just an elopement. She was disowned from the family," Tonks shook her hand off. "Because she loved a transgender man. My father,  _Edward_ _Tonks_. He's not just some person. Have enough _respect_ to at least say the name of your brother-in-law." 

"Edward, then," Narcissa winced. "My apologies. It is hard to shake bigotries that you were raised with. Hell," Narcissa laughed, the swear bitter on her lips. "If Aunt Walburga was still alive, she would have doubtlessly exiled _me_ , as well, for loving a woman. Walburga was the one to pressure me into marrying Lucius, did you know? Right out of school, when I was eighteen. Lucius was older than me, by quite a bit, but he was charming, handsome, rich. He spoke French to me, and I was so  _enamored,_ " she shook her head. 

"I was naive. He bedded me before marriage after a night of thoughtless drinking, and well - there is a reason Lucius is so  _particular_ about Draco having a child out of wedlock. Lucius doesn't want Draco to go down the same path he did. Luckily, Astoria rejected Draco's marriage proposal. _I_ had no choice. Times were different, back then."  

Harry had raised a hand to his mouth, watching the woman with glistening eyes. "I loved Draco as soon as he was born, and I admit, I spoiled him. I grew to love Lucius as well, but there are things about him I could not ignore." Narcissa lifted her head to implore with Tonks, her blonde hair a sheen of bleached white around her face. The roots were slowly returning to their original, brunette shade. "I envied your mother _._ Andy and . . . your  _father,"_ she stressed. "Were a beautiful couple, deeply in love. When Andy was disowned, I was too caught in my own misfortune to see that our family's bigotry was hurting her. When I finally pulled my head out of my own arse, I . . . I missed her. Dearly. I tracked her down, and discovered a lovely, vivacious niece I never knew I had," she ran a hand down Tonks' face. "She raised an incredible child. I am grateful to have been able to spend that time with Andy, while I still could." 

"What about your other sister?" Tonks croaked. "You were the youngest, and my mother was the oldest. What about Bellatrix?"

"Bella is dead," Narcissa said frankly. "She was in her twenties when she contracted a sexually-transmitted disease. Bella was ashamed of it, and did not seek treatment in time."

"How'd she get it?" Harry asked, alarmed.  

"From her boyfriend, Rodolphus. He was an incredibly promiscuous man, and a friend of Lucius. They were always involved in very shady business. Gambling, the mafia, the DeLacour debt. I don't know what you two want that invite for, but if it's anything like that - "

Harry and Tonks exchanged a panicked look. 

" - I don't want you to tell me about it," she finished, sighing.

"Does that mean . . . " Tonks trailed off. "You'll do it?"  

Narcissa lifted a slim shoulder, and her lips twisted into a wry smirk. "You must know, I _was_ a Malfoy for thirty-odd years. I don't do anything for free." 

Tonks returned the smile, a patented 'Black family' smirk. "Don't worry," she breathed out, relieved. "I think, given the circumstances, you'll be quite pleased with what Tom has planned. As will your girlfriend." 

* * *

**_Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire_ **

Rapping his pen incessantly against the polished desk, Lucius looked over the divorce papers with half-lidded eyes. They were signed, sealed and had been delivered to his divorce lawyer, but Lucius kept a copy of the documents for tax purposes. The innocuous paper wasn't at fault for his crumbling marriage, but Lucius felt the urge to burn it anyways. 

For thirty-some years, Lucius had dedicated his life to his family.

He had known for ages that his father, Abraxas Malfoy, had gained their money through less-than-appropriate means; but Lucius worked  _hard_ to maintain their reputation. He wasn't idle. He was a consultant with the Ministry, working on legislation, and was on the Board of Education at Hogwarts University. Lucius had always been not-so-secretly disappointed in his son's decision to attend beauty school rather than a university,  _but,_ Narcissa always said it was up to Draco to make his own poor decisions, and learn from them. 

Pity was, Lucius doubted Draco was _learning_ anything. The boy was, unfortunately, a fool. 

And Lucius was a fool to think he could handle it all. Violently opening a desk drawer, Lucius shoved the papers inside. The door opened just as he slammed the drawer shut. "Master Lucius?" the butler, Mister Dobby, asked in a feeble tone. 

 _"What?"_  

Dobby flinched. The man was short and weedy, with a bald head and an eccentric demeanor. He was older than Lucius and loyal to the Malfoy family. His family owed a fealty to the Malfoys, and Dobby had been chosen to deal with the consequences of that. 

"M - Master," he held a box in his hands, the sleeves of his uniform frayed and stained with tea. His hands trembled faintly from blistering burns. Mister Dobby was contracting a sort of debilitating Parkinson's disease, leaving him clumsy and forgetful; he'd tried bringing up retirement to the Malfoy patriarch, but Lucius tended to turn a blind eye to the suffering of others. Not that Dobby would say that out loud. "There's a package for you, sir. It says,  _returned to sender,"_ he read the stamp on the cardboard box. An envelope was taped on top, Lucius' name written in flowing cursive. 

"Ah." Lucius mumbled, recognizing the handwriting. As the box was placed onto his desk, glass clinking inside, Lucius scowled even further.

"You'll get wrinkles that way, sir," Dobby inserted quietly. 

With great force of will, Lucius smoothed his expression. "Will that be all, Dobby?" he asked, tired. 

"Yessir," Dobby hesitated for a moment, before leaving the room. "Good evening, sir." 

The door clicked softly shut. 

Staring down at the package with much the same expression as the divorce papers, Lucius reached toward the envelope taped to the top. 

 _‘Lucius,'_ it read, and he could sense from the sharp curves of the letters that the sender was irritated. 

_'There is no reason for you to court me with paltry gifts and flowers._

_We are getting a divorce, and nothing you do, say or buy will change that._

_Cordially,_

_Narcissa Black.'_  Her last name was underlined violently, a hole nearly ripped into the parchment. 

Threading his fingers through his long, limp hair, the strands unwashed for days, he stared down at the note. His dove grey eyes were dead. Fighting the urge to throw to package across the room, Lucius peeled away the packing tape and picked up the pink tinted glass bottle, a clear liquid inside. It seemed to have been cracked while in shipping. His fingers were coated with it,  the perfume smelling strongly of narcissus. Lucius was hit with a wave of nostalgia.

Fingers trembling, he squeezed the bulb and a cloud of scented mist cascaded over his torso. He inhaled the rosy scent, before gagging at the bitter aftertaste. "What the hell?" he snarled, dropping the perfume and lifting a sleeve to his mouth.

He let out a series of ragged coughs, his lungs  _burning._ As Lucius slipped from his seat onto the ground, gasping, the office door opened. Serena Zabini, tall and gorgeous, entered the room a surgical mask covering her mouth. Her dress trailed against the floor, a long, smooth leg stretching out to prod at Lucius' body. 

Lucius blinked, mystified, as the blurred stranger peered over his weak body. “How did you - "

"How did I get in? Your manservant, Dobby, the poor man."

"Help . . . ” he rasped, lungs growing tighter. “Help me.”

Serena gave a cold laugh, bending down over him. “Why should I? You're not the first man I've killed, but you were the easiest," she said, almost fondly. She dragged a sharply nailed finger across his cheek, and Lucius could swear it left a trail of pure fire. "I pride Narcissa in her attempt to segregate herself from your slimy grasp. She deserves far better,”

The murderess leaned down, eyes narrowed with manic, smug pleasure, as she snagged Narcissa's note. She crumpled it, tucking it into her bra. The letter was forged, in order for Lucius to trust the packaged poison, but Serena certainly didn't want her lover to be falsely implicated for murder.

Serena made a career out of murdering men; abusive, cheating, manipulating men, as well as her own seven ex-husbands. She wished she could be more creative with Lucius' death. There were so many opportunities. Serena could slowly drive Lucius to suicide by slipping medication into his tea, or chain him to his bed and force Lucius to _perform_ for her.

This method was painfully easy to organize, but, at the very least, effective.

And no one could deny that the man didn't deserve it. 

Serena lowered her mask to press a quick kiss to his forehead, leaving a nasty red mark on his perfect, pale skin.  

“I’ll be sure to kiss Narcissa  _‘goodbye’_  for you.”

* * *

One week later, Officer Kingsley Shacklebolt was one of the first to investigate Lucius' death. He traveled into the heart of London to visit the recently widowed Narcissa Black at her family home. 

Compared to her family, known for derangement and incest, Narcissa was the sleek epitome of class. She was the last remaining Black heiress, highly trained in etiquette and politically proficient - not to mention beautiful. Considering her ex-husband had been missing for nearly seven days, she was amazingly composed, posture straight and chin held high. Her ice blonde hair was piled beneath a tilted black cap, casting her sharp features into shadow. The woman had curtsied gracefully to Kingsley and greeted him politely, but her eyes were still wary. 

"You don't seem surprised to learn your husband has died," he noted, removing his cap. "Is there a reason for that?"  

"My son called," Narcissa explained. Kingsley took off his outer coat and fixed his cufflinks. The golden badges on his lapel gleamed in the softly flickering light. "If I don't seem horribly distraught, it is because Lucius and I have not been . . . communicating, lately."

"From my understanding, you are going through a divorce?" Kingsley asked, accepting the suggestion of tea in the solarium. 

"Yes," the woman said stiffly. "We've divorced. But that's not exactly a  _secret_ ,despite our best efforts to keep Rita Skeeter quiet on the matter."

Kingsley hummed in sympathy. His force was having a hell of a time closing up the crime scene at Malfoy Manor with that nosy bitch trying to interview every rookie for an 'inside scoop'. "My sympathies. Now, Missus Malfoy -  _Black,"_ he corrected himself, removing a notepad and pen from an inner pocket. "Where were you the night of - " 

She snorted inelegantly. Time away from her husband had loosened her. "Rest assured, no matter the night, I have an alibi, Officer Kingsley. I've been playing house with a dear friend for weeks on end," the woman explained delicately. 

"At night?" he asked dubiously. Narcissa stared him down, and he bit his tongue, flushing in realization. "Ah, of course." 

"As I said, Lucius and I haven't spoken in a long while, although that's not atypical." 

"So, a prolonged silence isn't rare?" 

Narcissa sighed, and remained standing as Kingsley sat down in a comfortable chair. A tea tray was already prepared, and Narcissa spoke as she poured for him. "Lucius likes to travel alone on occasion. He is -  _was -_ a very solitary man, you must understand."

Shacklebolt nodded idly, bringing the porcelain cup to his nose. "When did you first learn about his death?" 

"When my son, Draco, visited home," Narcissa said. "The boy is prone to tantrums. He heard of our divorce and stormed into his father's office, wanting answers. He found Lucius' body slumped behind his desk. I'm afraid it was quite traumatizing."

"Of course," Kingsley murmured.  

"Officer Kingsley, I promise you, that is all I know. I know what you're thinking, but there is no  _reason_ for me to kill my ex-husband. We've divorced. I've gotten my money, my freedom, and I am absolutely content with my life." 

Kingsley frowned deeply. "Your husband hadn't changed his will at the time of his death. At this moment, you are primed to receive what was left of the Malfoy fortune - " 

"My husband's family owed a large debt to the DeLacours in France," Narcissa said coldly. "I doubt what's left is little more than a pittance. I'm sorry to be so blunt, Officer, but you have  _nothing_ on me." 

Kingsley clenched the handle of his tea cup; "We found a perfume bottle in the room with him. A pink woman's perfume, shattered and containing trace amounts of noxious poison." His accent was becoming thick with agitation. 

"Dear me," Narcissa took a smooth sip. "It seems my husband has moved on already. Perhaps you should be looking into who he bought the perfume for? Clearly, it's not me," Narcissa gestured downwards. "I am, quite presently, a lesbian. I wouldn't accept a gift from _him,_ or any other man, for that matter."

"We'll be running fingerprints on the bottle," Kingsley warned. 

"Oh, good. That  _is_ your job, isn't it?" Her welcoming persona had dropped, leaving a frigid, narrow-eyed woman in it's place. "Best of luck with that, Officer. Now, you really must be off, I have funeral affairs to plan for." 

* * *

Bolstering himself, as he did every evening coming home, Ron pushed open the door to Gryffindor House. "Oi there, Weasley!" Came an immediate shout. "Get any pussy from Granger today?" 

A boombox was playing some rock band excruciatingly loud, but not loud enough for Ron to ignore Cormac's shout. He winced at the language, but soldiered on, tossing off his boots and flipping the two-fingered salute to McLaggen. "None of your damn business, Mc _Faggen,"_ he mocked, pleased at Cormac's red flush. 

Cormac sat at a billiard table, idly thumping a stick against the ground as Lee Jordan, snickering, made a shot. "I'm not drunk enough to pick a fight with you, Weasley," Cormac warned. With his free hand, he lifted a beer bottle from the table and took a swig. "But I will be soon. Better hustle off before I kick your arse." 

"Like  _that'll_ happen," Ron shook his head and began to ascend the stairs to his room.

Their 'playful, friendly banter' had taken a turn since Ron started dating Hermione. Cormac constantly pestered him for details, but Ron wasn't one to kiss and tell. 

Ron suspected jealousy, not that there was anything to be jealous of. Hermione made it clear she was not looking for a physical relationship. So far, she was the only one to initiate a kiss goodbye; he very much doubted she'd let him slip a hand into her pleated pantsuits.

Their 'dates' were typically at the library, wherein Hermione worked and Ron studied - studied _her_ as she bent over to replace books, mostly. At the end of her shift, if Ron was lucky, they would share a coffee at the nearby shop.

Or, rather, Hermione had tea, and Ron caffeinated himself so he might survive her nervous chatter regarding whatever book she was reading or advanced-level class she was studying. He now knew far more about quantum mechanics than he ever expected.

Hermione just looked so damn  _passionate_ when she was lecturing on something impossible and incredible. Her eyes, like pools of chocolate, lit up and her hair began to frizz - just a bit, like a cat's. Her voice changed tenor, to a high, ringing sound that sent shivers down his back.

Ron thinks he might be falling in love. It's a bit early to tell, sure, but - 

A resounding  _bang_ echoed throughout the house.

"Jesus _fuck!"_ Cormac screeched from downstairs. "You made me miss my shot!"   

"Sorry!" Came a call from Fred and George's room. A billow of smoke leaked out from the bottom of their door. Ron frowned deeply, before shoving the door open. Probably not his smartest idea, as he caught a face full of fire extinguisher. 

He coughed violently, hands on his knees. "What the  _hell?"_

The smoke cleared, revealing a set of sheepish twins, their eyebrows singed and a black mark on the carpet. "Is that," Ron wheezed, covering his mouth with his sleeve. "A bomb?" 

The three stared down at a small, metallic tube, currently emptying itself of a boiling liquid into a melted plastic tub. "It was," Fred said, nudging it with his toe. "George dropped the damn thing, and it went off." 

"This is bloody dangerous," Ron said in disbelief. "That's a  _bomb!_ You could be arrested for _terrorism_!" 

"It was completely under our control," George attempted to assure. "It's a prescribed fire, you see - " 

Ron lifted a hand, cutting him off. "I don't  _care,"_  he said, exasperated. The twins were constantly working on their little inventions and experiments; putting their chemistry and technical degrees to good use, but this was crossing a line. "It doesn't matter how 'safe' you think it is; you just bloody let loose a chemical bomb in our fraternity because of a bit of clumsiness. Don't you have anywhere else where you could pull this crap?" 

"Well, yes. But Tom doesn't really like it when - " George nudged Fred painfully in the ribs. "T - Tonks, I meant. Tonks." 

"Tom? Who the hell is - " Ron closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "It doesn't matter. Really. I just, I want to know - what the hell _this,"_ he circled the bomb with a finger. "Has to do with that pink-haired freak. And - and why Hermione gets so damned  _pissed_ when I mention Tonks and you two in the same sentence?" 

"Ah," George sighed, relieved. "Jealousy, I'd think. After all, we are quite dashing young men, and Tonks is a very attractive girl, once you get past the tendency to hide knives in her bra - " 

"Knives in her - have all these chemicals made you  _high?_ " 

George peered down into the tube, frowning. "They just might have. Explains why you're so loose-lipped, Fred." 

" _Me?_ You're the one jabbering about Tonks' bra - " 

They were getting ready to shove each other, and usually Ron would make a tactical retreat while he could, but he could recognize when they were trying to distract him.  _"Shut up_ about her bra," Ron hissed, hands on his hips as he channeled their mother. "Either you two tell me what the  _hell_ is going on, or I'll go to Percy and have you expelled for reckless endangerment." Percy, the perfect prefect, worked as an assistant to the college dean. Percy wasn't afraid to push his own family under the bus when it meant securing his position as a loyal, rule-following sycophant. 

"Not Percy," Fred whispered in horror. 

"You wouldn't  _dare!"_ George added. 

Ron nodded solemnly. "I would." 

The twins exchanged a  _look_. 

* * *

**_To be continued . . ._ **


	4. Chapter 4

  ** _The Merciful_**

**TanninTele**

* * *

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

_Chapter Warning: Sexual content implied, minor cross-dressing_

* * *

  **IV:**

It was like the start of a bad joke. Three redheads walk into a pub; two of them, identical down to their crooked grins, and the third clearly uncomfortable to be on the receiving end of those smiles. 

"What the  _hell_ is this place?" Ron asked, looking around in disgust at  _The Hog's Head._  

Fred and George snickered as they frog-walked him deeper into the building, giving the amused Aberforth a jaunty lift of the hat. Neither were wearing hats, so they mostly looked like fools. "This, dear brother," Fred said cheerfully, fighting the fact he was panicking inside. "Is where all the magic happens."

George pressed his lips by Ron's ear, and pointed at the cracked mirror. "That's where I got shot," he whispered breathily. Disbelieving, Ron twitched and batted him away.  They shoved him downward into the basement and rapped the secret code into the door.

"What on Earth - " baffled, Ron peered inside as the door swung open. "My God." 

He flinched as the  _thud_ of a knife embedded into the wall beside his ear.

"Whoops - sorry!" Tonks said sheepish. 

Smirking, Fred yanked the throwing knife out of the wall and tossed it back. She caught it deftly in her non-dominant hand, spinning it between her fingers. Her nails were polished with rainbow colors, and her pink hair was held back in a series of barrettes. "One, two, thr - why are there  _three_ gingers here?!" she startled, nearly dropping the knife on her toes. "There's only so many Weasleys we can handle here, guys." 

Hermione, reclined in a swivel chair, her hair cascading down in loose curls, looked up. Her eyes went wide, and she hid behind her newspaper before Ron could recognize her. 

" . . . yeah," Fred sighed, yanking Ron along. He had begun to wander toward the computers, and that was a recipe for disaster. "We may have made a mistake." 

"A tall one," Tonks noted absently, flipping the knife in her hands. She winked. "Not as good-looking as you two, though." From her chair, Hermione flushed jealously, sliding down into the cushion. 

Fred placed a hand on his heart. "Flattering, quite flattering, Miss Tonks." 

"But we don't know how reliable that is," George said wryly, sending a slight smirk to Hermione's hidden figure. "Considering your preference for the fairer sex." 

Tonks shrugged idly. "I can respect both the male and the female form. So long as  _they_ can respect  _me,"_ she rolled her hips, sliding her hands down her body seductively, until she was in a fighter's stance. "Duck." 

The twins yanked Ron down as the knife went slicing past their heads. It cracked into a bookshelf behind them, leaving a splintered hole in the wood. "We'd best visit the boss," George popped right back up, as though they hadn't just been at risk for a beheading. 

Tonks nodded, sniffing. "You'd best."  

"D - do you want me to get that?" Ron cleared his throat, and tentatively pointed upwards at the knife. It was poking out a foot above his head, not to mention three feet above hers.

Tonks narrowed her eyes at the knife, and seemed to take it as a challenge. She smiled coolly. "Don't worry about  _me,_ Weasley." Without another word, she vaulted upwards from her crouch, bounced off a chair - Hermione yelping - and snatched the knife. 

Ron stared blankly at his dark-skinned girlfriend. "H - Hermione?" 

The girl winced, and watched helplessly as Fred and George dragged Ron into Tom's office. 

They were instantly met with the back of a desk chair, a slender body arching backwards. Slender, strong fingers were entwined in his dark curls, and Harry gasped as a swift bite was delivered to his jugular. "Tom!" he breathed, pushing lightly at the man's shoulders. "T - Tom, we have guests." 

"Bugger," the man whispered. 

Ron closed his eyes tightly at the sound of a zipper pulling. He covered his face with his hands, red as a firetruck and - actually - close to crying. "Are  _all_ my friends involved in this - this secret cult?" 

"Cult?" Tom tsked, turning the chair, Harry settled back on his lap. They were both decent, at least, even if Harry's hair was a ruffled mess and Tom wore a self-satisfied smirk. " _Please_. Although I wouldn't mind being revered as a god every once and a while."  

"Good luck with that," Harry snorted at him. 

"Hm. Excellent point. Gods are omniscient, and while I consider myself quite well informed, I don't have a single clue as to what  _he_ is doing here." Tom jabbed a finger at Ron, who shifted uncomfortably behind the twins. 

Fred coughed. "Right. About that. George and I were working on the controlled fire bomb, like you asked, and there was this massive earthquake that shook - erm, a good one-sixteenth of London." 

"Uh huh," Tom said dubiously.

"The chemicals spilled, and we must've blacked out for a bit, because the next thing we knew, we woke up here with Ron, and - " 

"Oh, shut up." Tom snorted, and reaching beneath his desk, pulled out a gun. The twins flinched. He settled the weapon onto the tabletop and began idly cleaning it with a cloth, handing the clip to Harry for safe keeping. "For two excellent spies, you're both horrid at lying. Aren't they, darling?" 

"I don't know," Harry considered, a smile turning his lips. "Ron certainly looks all shook up. Are you sure you aren't just having a terrible, trauma-induced nightmare right now?" he asked Ron concern, passing Tom back the clip. Tom cocked it, and peered inside the barrel with an arched brow. 

Pale from head-to-toe, his freckles prominent, Ron shuddered. "I certainly hope so." 

"I can't see what he'd be so shook up about," Tom said, innocent. "We're all friends here. Well - " he glanced at Harry, nudging the boy's chin with the gun. "Some of us more than friends." He pulled Harry into a soft kiss, dragging his teeth over Harry's bottom lip.  

"What're you guys doing?" George deadpanned, twitching a finger between the two. "This is a family establishment." 

Harry pulled away, breathless. He wiped his lips, and pressed two fingers to his pulse, which was fluttering madly. He was mostly trying to hide the massive hickey forming there. "We're trying to make Tom seem busy until Hermione cools down," he tried to explain. 

"H - Hermione?" Ron frowned, still stunned at the turn of events. "Until she cools down from what?" 

"You  _assassinated_ Lucius Malfoy?" Hermione, almost on queue, screeched from the other room. 

Tom raised his navy eyes to the sky, swearing under his breath.

"You shouldn't have left the newspaper out where she could find it," Harry pointed out unhelpfully. Harry wiggled on Tom's thighs, causing the older man to gasp in arousal.

He pushed Harry off his lap, albeit gently. "Just for that, doll," Tom smiled sharply. Ron saw the hint of white incisors, bared like a wildcat's. " _You_ can take Ronald on a tour, and explain to him our operations here." He settled his gaze onto Fred and George who, while displaying immense bravado, each kept a protective hand on Ron's back. "I'll deal with  _these_ two idiots." 

"Come on, Tommy," George whined, dropping into a seat across from Tom. "We told you already what happened." 

"And I told you," He took up his gun, a finger settled on the trigger. "Never to call me _Tommy_." 

Harry took Ron by the arm and pulled him along, apologizing under his breath. "Tom isn't going to hurt them, I swear. The safety's on. He's just going to give them a talking-to."

"Yeah?" Ron asked, breathless.

"Yeah. One of the stipulations of their 'employment' here is two-way confidentiality. Tom won't kill them, they won't blab their mouths." Ron blanched, and Harry hurried to assure. "It's not your fault. They're the ones that slipped up. You're harmless, at least, so the worst they'll get is a slap on the wrist. He's fond of them." 

He pushed open the door, back into the command center. Hermione was standing over Tonks, who was casually spinning the blade in her hand. The pink-haired girl looked remarkably calm, considering the circumstances. Hermione ever looked at Ron like  _that,_ he'd probably dig his own grave so she wouldn't have to go through the labor of burying his dead body. 

" - don't you think  _poisoning_ the man is going a bit far?" Flapping the newspaper in the air, Hermione slapped it down. "And, really - oh, for God's sake, put down the damn knife. I can't take you seriously when you're spinning it around like a baton. You could take an eye out like that." 

"Alright, alright," Tonks said soothingly, placing the knife onto the ground. "Listen, about Malfoy, it was a calculated risk. The man was going to get in our way. His lawyer, Caractacus Burke, found evidence that it was Tom who leaked their misfortune to _T_ _he Daily Prophet._ They were getting too close to us."

"But - " 

"No buts," she shook her head, grasping Hermione's hands. "Malfoy _had_ to be terminated. It's merely a happy coincidence that this happened to coincide with our involvement of Narcissa Black. She was pleased by his death; he hadn't yet changed his will with their divorce, so what remains of the Malfoy fortune belongs to her. Killing two birds with one stone, right? And Madam Zabini was all-too-willing to protect her girlfriend. It wasn't difficult to convince her - "

"Why did we go through the lengths of negotiating with Narcissa Black if Zabini is already in Tom's pocket?" Hermione asked, eyes shrewd. 

"Oh, that was a stipulation, as well. Zabini doesn't work for anyone but herself, anf would only help us if  _she_ got the honors of offing Malfoy," Tonks smirked. "Come on, you've got to admit, the man was an arsehole." 

Still talking, Tonks shifted closer to Hermione until they were almost nose-to-nose. Hermione was slowly softening under Tonks' reassurances, and their voices settled to a light murmur. Eventually, Hermione nodded at her roommate.

Smiling in satisfaction, Tonks pressed a kiss to Hermione's cheek. " - right, then. Look at this with me?" She sat down with Hermione in front of a blueprint, thighs touching. "There's something odd that we noticed a about the exhibition. The largest room in the building is a ballroom, and we assumed this is where they would host the exhibit. However, there's a sunroof - "

"Why would they place all these priceless artifacts under natural light?"

"Exactly. The exhibit is somewhere else, but once it begins, all the entrances and exits will be guarded. The sunroof is our only access, but for that to work, we need to clear the room."   

"What about the vents?" Hermione mused aloud. 

"See, we considered that - eventually I'd have to  _leave_ the vents, so we still have to - " Tonks flipped an errant hair over her shoulder, and leaned over the blueprints. Hermione watched her with a gentle look.  

"Are those two . . . are they dating?" Ron asked quietly.

Harry jerked, torn from his quiet explanation of the Death Eater's and their functions. "Have you been listening to a single word I've said?" 

Ron waved a hand. "Yeah, yeah. Secret operation, gang war, petty theft, grand theft - knowing Fred and George, I'm not surprised they've found a home with this lot. It's just . . .  _Hermione."_ He let out a breath, almost disappointed. "I thought she was  _normal_. She's so  _smart,_ why would she - ?" Ron closed his mouth. He gestured at the two girls. "It's Tonks, isn't it? Hermione never looks at me like that," 

"I - " Harry trailed off, staring at his roommates with abrupt realization. He watched as Tonks reached over to tug one of Hermione's curls, teasing. He blinked. "Wow. That's quite obvious, isn't it? I can't _believe_ I never noticed. I suppose I don't have as great a gaydar as I thought," Harry mused

"Why I keep going after lesbians?" Ron moaned, throwing his head back. 

"Right," Harry said, bemused. "So you're _not_ upset that she's apart of a crime league - you're just upset she's gay." 

Ron shoved Harry. "You're the one that set me up with her!"  

Harry turned Ron around, patting his back. "It's alright, mate. We'll find you someone who isn't your left hand."

Ron groaned mournfully. "Don't remind me." 

Tsking, Harry took pity on him. "Say . . . , there's this intern at the Daily Prophet who's  incredibly similar to Hermione in looks, but _trust_ me, she's straight . . . "

* * *

Nearly three months later, the baby was early.

And it definitely wasn't Draco's. 

Little Scorpius, unlike his mother, had a shock of black hair and lightly tanned skin that Astoria recognized immediately. "He's a Zabini," she breathed to herself, as the baby was settled into her arms after nearly ten hours of labor. "He's Blaise's." 

Her hair was lank and sweaty, her mascara smeared from Astoria's violent, pained sobbing, and Draco's knuckles were most certainly broken from holding her hand. "My God," he said, more relieved than anything. "Wait,  _Zabini?!"_

After a brief shouting match that required Draco being escorted out of the maternity ward, Draco called his mother, voice strained from crying. "It's not mine," he sobbed, lifting a still-hurting hand to his face. "The baby isn't mine." 

"What - " Narcissa started, confused. "Well, that's - is it at least healthy?" 

"Yes, yes, mother and baby are fine. But they're not my problem anymore, don't you see!" He shouted, thrilled. 

Irritated, the waiting room secretary shushed him. Draco flicked her off, and - the back of his coat flapping, ran out of the hospital into the street. "It's not my kid, and this whole time, I could've been with Harry. Our reputations might not be in tatters, and father might not - " he cut himself off, stopping nearly halfway into the street. He quickly jerked out of the way of an incoming tab. "Father would be pleased." 

"Your father," Narcissa stressed, stern. "Didn't care a whit about the child. He just wanted you to make a responsible decision, for once, and take care of your own. The fact Astoria was sleeping with other men would not  _please_ him. It's  _your_ actions that dissappointed him or made him proud, not anyone else's." 

"It doesn't matter, anyway," Draco shook it off, raking a hand through his hair. The strands were free from gel and - quite frankly, disgustingly sweaty - but he didn't give a damn. He'd just spent ten hours in a stuffy, bleak hospital holding the hand of a woman he didn't love, dreading the birth of a son he didn't want, and now - he didn't have to worry about any of it. "Astoria and Blaise Zabini can fuck off and form their own perfect little family, or Astoria can ditch the kid and go to Havana, for all I care. I'm calling Harry, and I'm going to make things work. Life is short. Father knew that better than anyone." 

" _Zabini,"_ Narcissa mouthed, confused, and on her end of the line, turned a pair of wide eyes to her girlfriend. She cleared her throat. "Well, darling, don't make any hasty decisions regarding that poor Potter boy, He's already been through enough - " the line buzzed, as Draco hung up. 

The Black matriarch swallowed tightly, and shifted on the loveseat closer to her lover. "Serena, darling," Narcissa said sweetly, smoothing a hand across Serena's long leg. "You like babies don't you?"

Serena slowly set down her book. "That depends. Whosebaby?"

" _Yours._ Your grandson," Narcissa lorded, thrilled. She flashed Serena a picture on her phone, of a wrinkled, dark-skinned, squalling thing. "Scorpius Greengrass-Zabini." 

Brown eyes narrowed, realization creeping in. " _Grandson_ \- what the hell?"

Serena sat up as her phone vibrated, peering a text from her son. It was frantic, and misspelled, as Blaise was rushing to the hospital to visit Astoria. They were planning on taking a paternity test, just to make certain. Blaise, however, didn't seem so certain he _wanted_ a son. 

"Oh. A grandson. So it seems." 

"I've always wanted to adopt," Narcissa added, almost absently. 

The other woman tsked, putting away her phone and picking up her book. "Yes, well, I suppose  _someone_ has to care for the baby. We can rename him, correct? Scorpius is so . . .  _pretentious."_

"No more pretentious than 'Draco'," Narcissa said, an abandoned, glorious smile crossing her lips. "But I was eighteen, and easily convinced. I want to raise this one right." 

* * *

Tonks dropped a handful of cash onto the counter at the coffee shop, and took up both their drinks in one hand. She passed a cup to Hermione, who - in honor of the upcoming spring season - had ordered an iced tea. "See? I can provide for my friends," she said with a wide smile. "I didn't even have to rob the cafe at gunpoint."  

"Oh, but you're paying with your own money, are you?" Hermione asked, raising a brow. 

"Well. Tom's money," Tonks amended. She took a deep sip of her coffee. "He left his wallet in his pants, on the floor of Harry's room. He should know better."

Hermione fought a smile. 

"I've never liked tea," Tonks confided in her roommate as they left the shop. "It's too . . . _sophisticated_ for my taste. I always have to saturate it with sugar to even tolerate it." 

Hermione stared at her in amazement. "We're British. Tea runs through our veins, more potent than blood." 

Brown eyes rolled. "The Black family is Celtic and my father is German." 

"And my mother is from Trinidad. So what?" Hermione shook her head. "Just try it." 

"Nope!" Tonks tried to rush away, jumping onto a pedestrian path, but Hermione could be a determined little bugger. 

"Take one sip!  _One,"_ she pleaded, stopping Tonks with a hand on her arm. "It'll be good, I promise." Tonks felt heat from the hand's pressure, and - suddenly irked - grabbed the cup from Hermione's hand and took a quick swig. She expected to recoil immediately, but was instead surprise by a sweet, sour mix that exploded on her tongue.

"What _is_ that?" 

"It's mixed with lemonade. Half-and-half." Hermione said, pleased. "Quite good, no?"  

Tonks grudgingly took another sip. "Not terrible. Did - ah -  _Ronald_ ever take you out for coffee? Is that when you discovered this?" she tried to make the question nonchalant, but winced at herself. 

Hermione shrugged, taking back her drink. "We went to coffee shops a lot, yes. Nothing terribly romantic. It was usually after work, so I'd be tired, and he'd be bored. Why do you ask?" 

"I dunno." Tonks said, too quick. "I just - I  was curious. I haven't really dated since Remus, you know?" 

She took a sip of her own coffee, but it suddenly seemed so  _bland_ to her. The taste was foul in her mouth, and when Hermione wasn't looking, she dropped it into a rubbish bin. Somewhere deep inside, Tonks hoped Hermione would share. 

The weather was fair, so they were walking home, a cool breeze brushing their skin. The snow was slowly melting, leaving slush everywhere, but Tonks could spot a few splashes of green blooming through the cracks in the sidewalk. She kicked at a chunk of snow, sending it skidding into the street. A car ran over it with a wet splash. 

"Remus," Tonks continued after a beat. "Well,  _Remus_ was one of a kind." 

"Arrested, wasn't he?" Hermione said with a small, teasing smile. "For streaking right in front of the police." 

"His buddy dared him," Tonks defended, but she couldn't help but laugh. "I could've bailed him out, I suppose, but . . . as fun as it was with him, I didn't really  _feel_ it." 

Hermione pursed her lips, and brought her cup to them. Her voice was quiet. "What did you feel, then?" 

"Bereft," Tonks stated, without really thinking. Her cheeks turned the color of her hair. "Wow. All this time we've spent hanging out, I've started to sound like you," she laughed nervously, and lifted the collar of her shirt to avoid Hermione's hurt frown. "Kidding. I - um - I don't know. We just didn't  _click,_ you know? He was like me in a lot of ways, had a great sense of humor, and was so incredibly clever - like you, a bit, actually. But he was a real pushover. Always let his friends talk him into doing things. He'd have jumped off a cliff if they asked. Sometimes, I thought he was more in love with his best friend than he was with me. But that's another story," Tonks placed her hands in her pockets. 

The two were quiet for a moment, enough time to cross the street. They could see their apartment complex in the distance.

"Kind of sucks for our exes, don't you think?" Hermione said abruptly. "Remus ends up in jail, and Ron discovers all his close friends and family are mixed up in a con operation." She laughed. "We're  _great_ influences, aren't we?" 

Tonks joined in her laughter, cheeks warming at the sound of Hermione's giggles. She let their hands brush together, and if their pinkies linked in the process; well, it was all very platonic.

She felt almost . . .  _bereft,_ when Hermione pulled away to take out her key card. Hermione handed the iced tea to Tonks, who took an ample sip before handing it back. Tonks wondered to herself, if they kissed, would Hermione's lips would taste like lemon?

They opened the door to their apartment. The telly was on, and Harry was murmuring softly with Tom on the couch. The younger boy was clearly upset.

Tonks strutted in, smirking at the red marks on Harry's wrists and throat. 

"What're you two talking about?" Hermione leaned against the kitchen counter, finishing the last of her tea. 

"The Malfoy brat," Tom's nose crinkled, pointing the remote at the television to switch it off. "It appears, according to celebrity news, he is  _not_ Astoria Greengrass' baby daddy. That honor goes to Blaise Zabini; the relatively unremarkable son of Madam Zabini. An 'close, inside source' says they had relations at a beach house party." 

Harry, visibly subdued, sunk deeper into the couch beside his boyfriend. "I had wondered why he was calling me," he murmured. "But Tom wouldn't let me ask."

Tonks stiffened while in the process of checking the fridge. She spoke clearly, enunciating carefully, as she asked for confirmation. "He  _called_ you?" 

Tom thought back to that morning. 

_The phone was ringing; he almost hadn't noticed over the sound of their ragged breathing, until the automated voice messaging system picked it up. The words faded in and out, before Harry pulled away, and shushed him._

" _\- We were both being petty, admit it. Let's just talk it over, and if you're -_  unwilling  _to get back together now, we can just be friends. I'd . . . I'd really appreciate a second chance - "_

_At that, Tom grumbled under his breath and reached for the landline._

_"Tom . . . " Harry whispered urgently, green eyes wide. "No - don't." He jerked upwards, and slumped back with a huff, movements restricted._

_"Hello?" Tom said into the speaker, his voice deep and rough. "Who is this?"_

_The other line was quiet, with only the soft sound of Draco's breathing. "Um. It's Draco. Draco Malfoy. Who - who is_ this?"

_"Tom Riddle," the man introduced smoothly, letting out a short grunt as he crawled off Harry and sat on the edge of the bed, closer to the phone. He was shirtless, and the muscles of his back were tense, no matter how calm he sounded._

_" . . . right," Draco said, dubious. "Is Harry there?"_

_With a shit-eating grin, Tom ran a finger down the silken necktie knotted to the headboard. "Oh, no. He's a bit tied up now."_

_Harry jerked on the ropes, the wiry muscles of his torso strained and glistening. "_ Tom!"  _he whispered furiously._ " _Don't - don't say that."_

_"Hush," Tom shushed him. He continued pleasantly. "Would you like to leave a message?"_

_"Er, yes, actually - "_

_"That's a pity, as I'm not a messanger owl. If_ _you'd like to contact him, he'll be moving in with me sooner rather than later, once the deed on the penthouse goes through. And we don't give our phone number to solicitors."_

_Harry rolled his eyes back and strained on the ropes, wishing dearly that he could slap his lover in the back of the head. And then drag him back to finish what he'd started._

_Tom seemed to sense Harry's heated stare, as he began to wrap things up. "Now, it's been an absolute delight, but I'm afraid my lover needs a bit of attention. Wish me luck. He's a handful." Tom brought a hand around to grasp the tent in Harry's boxers. The boy let out a pitiful, needy cry that Draco would have to be deaf to ignore. "Literally."_

"He did," Tom nodded, smirking at Harry's blush. 

"Right. That's it," With a stomp to her feet, Tonks disappeared into her room for a good three minutes, before returning with a gleeful expression. Harry peered up at her, dread in his eyes. "I did it. It's uploaded." 

Tom blinked. "What is?" 

"That man-whore and Harry's - " 

Harry hid himself in the coach cushion, moaning almost indecently. "Don't _tell_ him!" 

" _Please_ , don't talk about it," Hermione added, pleading. "I really don't need to know the details." 

Tonks finished. " _Sex tape."_  

At that, Hermione quickly bowed out, covering her ears. Tonks smiled at her innocently, and spoke louder, just to annoy her. "Harry told Draco if he made the slightest bit of contact, I had full authority to humiliate him. Don't worry, Harry, I blurred your features." She perched on the armrest, nudging her shoulder good-naturedly into Harry's. Harry weakly shoved her away.

Face still muffled by his pillow, Harry mumbled. " _Great."_

Naturally, Tom demanded to watch. 

Tonks fetched Hermione's computer from beside the couch, booting up the internet with a dark smile. "If she finds out you used her computer to watch porn - " Harry warned. 

She flapped a hand. "It's for scientific purposes." 

" _What_ scientific _\- ?"_

" _Biology_ ," Tonks stated with a sly smile, covering Tom's groin with the laptop. He grunted slightly. "Watch and weep, Riddle. Watch and weep." 

The video, posted on a website similar to WikiLeaks, and already gaining dozens of views, began with a poorly edited intro. Grainy sound effects of city life and road construction filled the room. Tom turned it up as Malfoy entered the frame. 

The pale man was dressed in a ridiculous orange vest, and nothing else. He was a construction worker. "He wouldn't wear the helmet," Harry murmured softly, clearly embarrassed. "Thought it would ruin his hair." 

Draco was stroking himself on screen, and the awkward zoom-in finally pulled away as Harry walked in on him. "Oh, God," Harry covered his face with his hands. The faceless twink onscreen was barely recognizable as the boy he was today. Pale and nervous, Harry wore the schoolgirl skirt with clear reluctance, although he became more confident as Draco showered him with gruff, clearly scripted, compliments and cat-calls. There was no real plot, as Draco soon took over, pushing Harry roughly to his knees. 

"Who directed this?" Tom asked in a hushed voice.

Harry, afraid to look him in the eyes, spoke softly. "Draco had a videographer friend film it. Terry Boot, or something." Tom was quiet for a moment. Harry took a peek, and saw Tom's eyes were lidded with desire.

Tonks spoke up, her voice high and breezy. "Rather strange for a personal video to be filmed by a  _friend_. Unless you three had an - ah -  _ménage à trois_ ," the suggestion made Harry cringe. 

"Absolutely not," he shook his head, pressing his cheek to Tom's arm. "Terry was a menace. Although, now that I think about it, Draco and Boot spent an awful lot of time 'editing' it." 

Tom, saving Harry from his torture, scrolled down to read the comments. "Everyone seems to like your skirt, love," Tom told him, a tongue peeking out between his lips. He shifted the computer on his lap. "As do I." 

"Yeah, well, it's  _my_ skirt," Tonks said sardonically, sitting up. She approached a basket filled with folded laundry, courtesy of Hermione. Combing through the articles of ripped jackets and dark leggings, she tossed the plaid skirt at Harry. "If you like it so much, you can keep it." 

Avarice gleaming in his eyes, Tom took the skirt reverently into his hands, staring at his lover. They both ignored the sound of Draco ejaculating on screen, the pitiful streaks staining Harry's face. The camera shook, as though the camera crew was rather  _busy_ holding it one-handed. 

"Hm. Schoolgirl skirt, huh?" Tom mused, brushing a finger down Harry's red cheek. "When I was younger, I fancied being a professor." 

Harry considered it, trying the phrase on his tongue. It came out as a sensual purr. " _Professor_ Riddle?" 

Tom's eyes clouded. 

"If you two are going to have kinky, role-play sex," Tonks quickly interrupted, snatching Hermione's laptop back. "Do it at Tom's. We have thin walls."  

The couple stood, hands entwined, and while Harry fetched his shoes, Tom mouthed.  _'Send me the link.'_  

Tonks gave him a thumbs up. "Will do." 

They left quickly. 

Kicking the door shut behind them, Tonks carefully erased Hermione's internet history, so the girl wouldn't panic. Just before she pressed the  _clear history_ button, Tonks paused. "Hermione," she called out. "The coast is clear." 

Tentatively, Hermione opened her bedroom door. All Tonks could see peering out was a mass of hair. Tonks smirked to herself, and pressed _play_ on the video, the sound of Harry's moans filling the apartment. She leaned back seductively on the couch. 

"So . . . the apartment's empty. Wanna have kinky, gay sex?"

Hermione flushed violently and, in a blur of dark curls, slammed the door shut, hiding a smile. 

* * *

_**TH** **E** **DAILY PROPHET** _

_Obituaries:_

**_Alvin Creevey_ **

_Devoted father, Alvin M. Creevey (45) was found dead at his home last night due to a burglary-turned homicide. He is survived by his two sons, Colin (19) and Dennis (13), who is in the hospital with greivous injuries._

_The funeral will be held on Saturday at 3:30 p.m. at the chapel of St. Stephen's to the graveyard. If anyone has information regarding Mister Creevey's tragic death, please come forth and contact constable Francis Martin at Whitby 01947._

_**Terrence Boot** _

_T_ _errence Boot (24) was found dead in the Hogwarts University darkroom due to an 'accidental ingestion of acidic photograph developing chemicals'._ _Terrence, known to his friends and family as 'Terry', was a student of film and videography -_

"Ah," Tom smiled, finding what he was looking for. It seemed his assassins had done their job. He set the newspaper down to watch Harry butter his toast. The boy was clearly struggling, the bread crumbling onto the plate. 

Tom was amused. "Do you need help buttering your toast, dear?" 

"I - " Harry grunted, scraping the knife across the burnt bread. "Am perfectly capable. Of buttering my bread."  

Tom leaned over to kiss Harry's cheek. "I never said you weren't," he said quietly, slipping a hand up Harry's skirt. "You're capable of anything you put your mind to." 

"Don't patronize me." 

Tom smiled sweetly. "I love you."

"Well, I'd hope so," the boy flushed, batting his hands away. "Now give a man some space to enjoy his toast, or I'll cut you with this knife," Harry brandished the butter knife, not-so threatening with hair in his face and a plaid skirt trailing scantily against his thighs. Tom could see a hint of Harry's lacy underwear, and smirked knowingly.

"Don't think I won't," Harry warned.

"Darling," Tom said fondly, raising his hands defensively. "If it brought you peace and joy, I'd gladly let you kill me any day." 

Harry rolled his eyes at him, meeting half-way for a reluctant kiss. "Little deaths only, Tom. Little deaths."  

* * *

**_To be continued in_ The Powerful**


	5. Chapter 5

**_Part Three of_ ** **_The Dreadfuls_ ** **_is up._ **

**_Visit[The Powerful](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15342861),_ **

**_And check out my Tumblr for chapter updates, aesthetics and fan art at_ **

**_[TanninTele.](https://tannin-tele.tumblr.com/) _ **

 


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